The Pro-Age Woman April Issue - Flipbook - Page 50
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R
ecently, over dinner, someone raised
the topic of pickleball. They were just
making small talk, but my reaction was
one of obvious revulsion, so they explained. This person
used to play competitive racquet sports, and now in midlife, they described their body as being so broken that
pickleball allowed them to be active yet didnÕt place the
same kind of strain as squash or tennis.
ÒItÕs really fun,Ó they went on, ÒI think youÕd like
it.Ó
I shook my head. Impossible.
There are certain words that turn me off, and pickleball is one of them. IÕm sure itÕs a great sport, and I know
that itÕs popular with people of all ages, but I just canÕt
get past the name. For argumentÕs sake, letÕs pretend I
could get past the name; pickleball terms are words that,
in my view, lack dignity: Dill ball, falafel, flapjack,
pickledome, volley llama, andÑwait for itÑdink shot.
Dink shot.
Let that sink in.
I just canÕt. Not in my Stella McCartney tennis dresses.
That would be disrespectful to the designer. Tennis, on
the other hand, has a more upscale, aspirational ring to
it. IÕll take an overhead smash over a dink shot any day.
In my defense, I come by word bias honestly, just
like my aversion to men named Dwayne. I cannot picture
myself uttering that name in moments of bliss. I cringe.
Even if it were Dwayne ÒThe RockÓ Johnson, and he
offered me a 10-carat diamond, I would gag a little bit
and runÑno, sprintÑin the other direction.
50 THE PRO-AGE WOMAN April Issue